


what if we rewrite the stars?

by the_tenerife_sea



Category: One Direction (Band), The Greatest Showman (2017)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff and Angst, Historical Inaccuracy, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-25
Updated: 2018-02-25
Packaged: 2019-03-22 05:59:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13757769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_tenerife_sea/pseuds/the_tenerife_sea
Summary: Louis doesn't even know the man’s name, just knows that he wants to —needsto know him, touch him, be with him forever and ever until they grow old and get matching gravestones behind the church on 8th Street—He needs to calm down, is what he needs.It’s his first day working with PT Barnum and it’s already changed his life.____Or a Greatest Showman/Rewrite The Stars AU.





	what if we rewrite the stars?

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! I posted like two HL fics about two or three years ago that I deleted a few days later (on a now deleted ao3 account), so we'll just say this is the first HL fic I've posted. And it's actually good this time (hopefully?).
> 
> You probably don't need to have seen The Greatest Showman before reading this, but it's an amazing movie so you should watch it anyway. Some parts and references might be easier to picture and understand if you've seen the movie (and that's one of my favorite parts about fanfiction. Since everyone already has an idea of who the characters are and what the setting is, I can focus on witty dialogue). Also you may want to listen to the songs from the movie's soundtrack I used as headings to really get into that AU mood.
> 
> This is by no means historically accurate because 1) The Greatest Showman is not an accurate representation of PT Barnum and his circus, and 2) this is fanfiction. Just go with it.
> 
> I've always wanted to write Louis as Troy Bolton, though.
> 
> All of this has been edited by yours truly and it's a lot, so I'm sorry for any errors.
> 
> Please enjoy!

**_The Other Side_ **

 

As soon as Louis sets foot into the building, the word _circus_ printed in huge letters above the entrance, almost mocking him, he wants to kick himself for agreeing to this.

Ten percent. A measly _ten percent_ of the show is what he settled for. Is he really that desperate?

He thinks about the forced laughter at the parties he attends with his mother and stepfather, the bitter taste of whiskey he was drowning himself in when Barnum found him, the plays he’s tried pouring his heart and soul into with little satisfaction and payoff.

Yeah, he thinks. He _is_ pretty desperate.

He’ll just have to take his insignificant ten percent weekly, then. That’ll show Barnum.

The insides of the building do justice to the words displayed on the outside. Everything is chaotic and overwhelming, a true circus of people, animals, and everything in between. Louis doesn't know where to look first.

This is nothing like the theater.

Barnum is yelling instructions at the performers as he leads Louis to the upper decks. It seems they’re about to start a show, and Louis can’t help but be swept up in Barnum’s enthusiasm. He’s never seen his show, but he knows it makes the people smile more than any of Louis’ plays have.

They make it to the top, Barnum looking over his shoulder and smiling expectedly as he lets Louis step out in front of him, like he knows Louis will love whatever he’s about to see—

And he's right.

There’s a man, swinging rights towards him on a trapeze, and he’s…

He’s magnificent.

 _Beautiful_ is actually the first word that comes to mind, but seeing... _this._ This display of pure strength and beauty perfectly combined into one human being, and it's right in front of him. The man is _flying_. He’s flying through the air, twenty feet above the sea of the crowd, and it's the most amazing thing Louis has ever seen.

He swears their eyes meet.

Louis decides magnificent is a better descriptor.

He doesn't even know the man’s name, just knows that he wants to — _needs_ to know him, touch him, _be_ with him forever and ever until they grow old and get matching gravestones behind the church on 8th Street—

He needs to calm down, is what he needs.

When the man is out of sight, Louis feels like he can finally breathe properly. “Who is that?” he mumbles, almost to himself. He sounds dazed and disoriented, like he was the one spinning and flying through the air like a bird.

It’s his first day working with PT Barnum and it’s already changed his life.

 

\---

 

Harry. His trapeze boy is named Harry.

Barnum introduced them after the show before Louis was even close to ready of thinking of a way to impress him, but suddenly he was right in front of him, wearing nothing but a tight purple vest and tights to match. His fingers delicately untangled his long curly hair from the twisted bun on the top of his head, all too beautiful, all too close, and all too soon. Louis felt as if he had to pay an admission fee just to look at him. 

“Gemma, Harry,” Barnum had said. “I’d like to introduce you to my newest hire, Mr. Louis Tomlinson. Louis, this is Gemma and Harry Styles.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Louis said with a nod towards Gemma before he turned to face Harry, extending his hand for him to shake. Harry took it with a calculating stare and a sharp smirk, looking more like a bird of prey than the lovely flying swallow he was less than five minutes ago. “And what is your act, Mr. Tomlinson?”

His voice was like molten chocolate, deep and rich and something Louis craved more of. The green of his eyes reflected off his shiny purple costume, making them look as if they were glowing. Louis couldn't stop staring. “I—” He stuttered. “I don't have an act.”

Harry released his hand and tugged a woolen coat over his broad shoulders, his grin full force and blinding. “Everyone’s got an act,” he'd said with finality, walking past Louis and towards the exit without looking back.

His sister, Gemma, followed closely behind, but not before shouldering Louis harshly as she caught up to Harry. Louis hardly noticed, however, too caught up in staring after her gorgeous brother.

PT had clapped Louis on the shoulder at their departure, dragging him off to meet the other performers, but the only thing sticking in Louis’ head was _Harry, Harry, Harry,_ like his brain had its own heartbeat, and it only pumped for Harry Styles.

 

The very same Harry Styles he’s currently watching from behind a sack of horse feed.

This could be considered spying, which is rude, but Louis would like to think of it as observing what he's invested his time (and no-longer-existing inheritance) in. Harry being included in his brand new feat just happens to be an unanticipated bonus. Louis is scoping out everything in the building, not just Harry.

Or his arms. 

Or his hair. 

Nope, just doing some routine inspection.

Harry is talking to Liam the strongman under the ring’s bleaches, tying and untying a rope in his hands and showing Liam the results. Louis assumes it has something to do with his act, if only he could get a little closer to them, he could listen—

He hears a cough, and Louis’ eyes unglue themselves from Harry only to see that Liam’s stare is directly on him. His cheeks burn at being caught.

“Tomlinson, right?” Liam calls out.

Louis steps out from his hiding place with a dazzling smile and an air of confidence.“Louis Tomlinson, yes.” He sincerely hopes it doesn’t look like he was spying. 

“So,” Liam says, leaning back against the supports behind him, the look on his face telling Louis that he most definitely knows Louis was watching him and Harry. “What made you decide to trade your uptown playwright friends for the band of misfits?”

“Playwright?” Harry says, eyes flitting from the rope he’d been fidgeting with to meet Louis’ gaze. “I thought I recognized your name.”

Louis suddenly feels like he’s under the spotlights of the ring. How should he play this? Taking chances seems to have been working in his favor recently.

“So you’ve heard of me?” He tries for coyness, blinking at Harry from under his lashes and letting a smirk grace his lips. 

Shit, now he’s worried he sounds like an ignorant ass. It’s just that — Harry makes him so unsure of his words. Words were his only comfort at one point in his life, it’s the last thing he should be uncertain of. Harry is intimidating, to say the least. Louis just wants to impress him.

“I have,” Harry answers, matching the flirtatious tone Louis had used, and Louis swears his heart skips. “But now I’d also like to know why you’re not sipping champagne with your fancy actors and actresses.”

Louis scrapes the bottom barrel for something clever to say back, to keep up the rhythm they’ve formed. “Mr. Barnum presented me with an opportunity,” he says. He looks directly into Harry’s eyes. “It was a risk I was willing to take.” 

Harry meets his stare without doubt. “Risks don’t always pay off.”

Louis feels his own eyes narrow slightly. “I think this one might,” he answers Harry, the words feeling significant.

“I think it will too,” Liam tacks on. Louis almost forgot he was there. “Niall said last night’s show sold out! How amazing is that?”

Louis puts a smile back on his face and claps Liam on the back. “Amazing!” He dismisses himself before he can embarrass himself further. “Now, I think I’ll go explore somewhere else.” He makes the mistake of focusing his attention back to Harry, and — Harry’s eyes are already on him, intense and soft at the same time. Louis’ feels his heart pick up and his breath catch simultaneously. “I’ll — I’ll see you.” He awkwardly pats Liam’s shoulder once more and glances at Harry again. His lips are now turned up in a gentle smile, and Louis nearly pauses in his movements because of it, but he recovers, reminding himself not to look back the entire time he’s walking away.

 

\---

 

“Tea?”

The sound Harry’s voice makes Louis jump in his chair. The papers he was studying at his cluttered desk in the deepest enclave of backstage fall from his hands and thankfully, not all over the floor.

“I — um,” he scrambles. It seems Louis is constantly overthinking his words when he’s around Harry. Louis used to write plays for god sakes. And now he's a promoter. Words are literally his _job._ “What?” 

Harry lifts the label of Louis’ teabag from where it’s dangled over the side of his cup. “Tea,” Harry says again, moving the cup closer towards Louis so he can perch himself right on top of the desk. “I haven't had tea since I was little. This stuff looks rather expensive, though.” 

“It is.” Louis answers without thinking. Jesus, he sounds like a pretentious prick. “I could—” he tries to backtrack, but all he can think about is this is the first time he’s talked to Harry alone without someone else there as a buffer. “Do you want some?” He opens the desk drawer on his left, “I think I have another bag in here, if not, I have more at home. Cups, too, I only have one cup here, though, so—” His rambling is cut off by Harry’s rumble of laughter.

“It’s okay, Mr. Tomlinson.” He leans back on his hands. “I don't need your tea. But thank you for the offer.”

“Louis,” he replies, flustered and blushing. “Please, call me Louis. Mr. Tomlinson is my stepfather.” 

Harry’s hand is tracing circles on the wooden surface of the desk with his pointer finger, his eyes following the movement. “Louis,” he tests, and Louis never thought his own name could sound so pretty coming out of someone’s mouth.

He clears his throat. “Is there something you need, Harry?”

His eyes light up. It’s beautiful. “Yes, actually.” He hops off Louis’ desk, his voice as smooth and slow as honey, “Gemma usually helps me with recording the measurements and such when I do the costumes — I help make everyone’s costumes — and she’s out right now, and Niall is busy counting coins in the ticket booth so I was wondering,” he looks at Louis from under his lashes. “If you would help me?”

“Um.” _Get it together, Louis._ “I mean, yes. Yes, of course.”

Harry beams at him, and it's like feeling the summer sun on your skin for the first time after ten years of rain. What other feelings has Louis been missing out on without Harry Styles in his life?

“Perfect.”

 

\---

 

“Almost done, Lettie.” Harry wraps the measuring tape around her waist and reads off the number for Louis to write in Harry’s little notebook. “Okay, I should be able to make you a new sash by tomorrow.”

“Oh hun, please don't work too hard,” Lettie says to him. “I know you still have to fix your own costume.”

“What happened to your costume?” Louis asks. He’s out of the loop when it comes to rehearsals and the performers, PT mostly has him doing paper and fieldwork.

“Oh,” Harry rolls up the measuring tape. “I tore my tights when I fell during rehearsal—”

“You fell?” Realistically it makes sense that in doing trapeze, Harry would have to fall _sometimes_ , but Louis didn't really think about that. Harry does this for a living, it makes sense.

It still doesn't ease the spike of anxiety that’s bloomed in his chest, however.

“Like an idiot,” Harry answers him flippantly, like him falling from over twenty feet above ground is no big deal. To him, it probably isn't. “So I have to sew them up before next show.” He takes his notebook from Louis’ hands, and the brief brush of Harry’s skin against his doesn't go unnoticed. He flips through the pages Louis has been marking on, tucking a lock of hair behind his ear.

The words _be careful_ are about to slip past Louis’ lips, but he shouldn’t say that, that would be patronizing, and he’d be overstepping some boundaries, surely—

“You should be more careful next time,” comes out somehow anyway. 

Dammit. His brain to mouth filter is proving to never function properly when he’s talking to Harry. 

Harry laughs, though. And Louis has to stop himself from snapping his head towards the sound. “You’re right. Gemma said the same thing.” 

“What did I say?” A woman’s voice shouts. Gemma enters through the back door, a wicker basket on her arm. “Probably something smart.”

Harry barely looks up from his notebook when he answers her with a smile. “Mr. Tomlin— _Louis_ was just saying I should be more careful when we practice. I was telling him you said the exact same thing.”

Gemma gives him a look that wipes whatever semblance of a smile Louis was sporting right off his face. “He’s not wrong.” She hands Harry the basket. “But he shouldn't be making comments about our acts when all he does is sit at a desk and rake in the profit.” 

“Gemma,” Harry gasps, his eyes wide and mouth gaping open slightly.

“No,” Louis cuts in, feeling horribly out of place now. “No, she's right, I’ll just—” He nearly trips on his own feet. “I’ll go...” He makes a vague hand gesture towards the direction of his desk. “Sorry,” he adds.

He can hear Lettie mumble, “Jesus,” under her breath as he briskly walks away.

 

\---

 

Harry finds him again at his desk the next day.

He greets Louis quietly this time, his eyes downcast and his hands folded anxiously in front of him. This Harry is new to him, he’s used to the confident man, not this bundle of nervous energy. Louis nods at him in acknowledgment and continues writing out his most recent endeavor regarding expanding Barnum’s reputation on the paper in front of him.

Harry is still standing there after Louis has written another three sentences, and he’s thinking about awkwardly apologizing again for yesterday when Harry beats him to it.

“I’m sorry about Gemma.”

 _Harry_ is sorry?

Louis looks up and sets his pen down, staring at Harry in bewilderment. “You don't have to apologize, Harry,” Louis says. “She’s done nothing wrong. She was right, actually, I was out of line, and—”

Harry interrupts him. “I know what you do here is important.”

And — he doesn't know what to say to that. Any argument he had left in him has flown the coop.

Harry continues despite his silence, and clarifies, “What you do here is just as important as what anyone else here does and...and I appreciate you.”

“I…” Harry is good at leaving him at a loss for words. His insides feel like they’re on fire just because Harry Styles said one nice thing about him. “Thank you.” He hopes Harry can't tell that he's blushing. “I appreciate you saying that.” 

Oh, but he can tell that Harry is blushing now, and that’s...curious.

“I used to stand outside the theater to listen to your plays, you know,” Harry says out of the blue, pink blush still fresh on his cheeks. His eyes flicker up to meet Louis’ for a brief second, and the thought of Harry sitting on the theater steps, bright-eyed and lovely, desperate to listen to what _Louis_ had to say, it makes him feel something. It makes him want to write again. Something with _meaning_ this time. 

His plays were superficial, always what he thought people would like, but Harry makes him want to write about how the misery is all _worth it_ when you have someone as exquisitely beautiful as Harry Styles standing in front of you.

“You did?”

“Yeah,” Harry is grinning now, eyes meeting Louis’ again. “Could never afford to go in, but...I used to read about how lovely they were in the papers.”

Louis gives him a sad smile. “They were quite depressing, actually.”

“But that's what made them beautiful,” Harry says. “They were real.”

 _No,_ Louis wants to say, _they weren’t._

They were hardly as real as Harry makes him feel.

 

\---

 

Louis gets them the invitation to England. To _Buckingham Palace_ . Holy mother of _Mary._

He runs straight to the circus building, imagining the look on PT’s face, on everyone’s faces, when he announces they’re going to see the _Queen of England_. This is perfect. The crowds in New York are as critical as ever right now, heading overseas can only bring more success. Why does he feel like he's accomplished more with just this sheet of paper than he ever has throughout his entire career as a playwright? 

“Louis!” he hears Helen, PT’s youngest daughter, shout as he enters. Skinny arms wrap around his legs as she plows right into him.

“Oof. Hello, princess,” he greets her with a chuckle and a pat on the head, his heart aching because she’s so much like his sisters, blonde hair and all. He curses his stepfather for banning him from seeing them ever since he learned about Louis’ involvement in Barnum’s show.

Louis shakes those thoughts from his mind, focusing on the real reason he rushed over here so quickly. “I come with good news, _great_ news,” he says, removing his top hat and scarf with a flourish. He hands PT the invitation, and everybody gathers ‘round to listen to him read it.

“Buckingham Palace?” PT says with disbelief. “An invitation to Buckingham Palace? Is this real?”

“I had to pull a few strings,” Louis answers. “We want society to accept us, so why not start at the very,” Louis lifts Helen off the ground and sets her on top of a nearby wooden crate. “Very,” he places his hat on her head. “Top.” She giggles at him.

Everyone erupts into cheers and applause, already making plans and dispersing to begin packing their things, but Harry hangs back, leaning against the brick wall. 

“So,” he starts, a soft smile on his face. “How _did_ you do it?” 

“One of my plays was a hit in London,” Louis tells him. “I’m kind of famous there.” 

Harry laughs, and his happiness is contagious. “This is amazing, Lou.”

_Lou._

Louis is blushing, rolling his eyes and trying hard to remain casual. “Please, it’s nothing—”

“ _You’re_ amazing.” 

Apparently, Harry is throwing the meaning of casual out the window.

He isn’t finished, either. “You’ve made everyone so happy, I don’t think I’ve ever seen them more excited.” 

“They’re amazing people,” Louis answers, immediately and honestly. “They deserve happiness.”

“They do,” Harry agrees. “They’ve had tough lives.” He kicks the ground with the toe of his boot, crossing his arms over his stomach and holding his elbows. “We all have,” he says softly.

Louis’ chest echoes with guilt at the thought of his own privileged upbringing, and for the years he’s never considered the lives of those different from himself. He grew up where it was normal to judge and ridicule those who weren’t like him, and to care deeply about what people think of you. He promises himself he’s going to make up for it, starting now. “I’m honored to be the one to accompany you all, then,” he says truthfully. “There isn’t a group of people I would rather be with. Not just in England, but anywhere.”

Harry tucks a long lock of hair behind his ear, sporting a shy but determined grin, and replies, “Me too.” He clears his throat lightly. “I think I’d go anywhere with you.”

And — did Harry really just say that? Is he dreaming?

His body’s reaction to Harry’s words is immediate, heart fluttering against his bones, like it’s going to sprout wings and fly right out of his ribcage, and his breath stopping short. This has to be a dream, the best dream he’s had in ages.

Harry has taken a risk with his words. He’s advertently admitted to feeling what Louis has been feeling too, can feel the pull that’s been nagging at Louis the second he laid eyes on Harry, and it’s — oh god.

In theory, it's  _amazing_ , but — Louis has never dealt with _this_ before. He’s never gotten this far, never been so far gone.

See, he’s admired many men from afar, always preferred to admire men over women, but he also knows a man loving another man isn’t something that’s talked about. _Especially_ in high society. He knows the family shame that comes from affairs personally, but being in a relationship with a _man_? Even if Louis isn't married and this isn't an affair, their love would be damning in this world.

Louis’ mind panics, but his heart can't bring himself to care.

He wants to be with Harry, and if Harry wants to be with him, he's not going to get in the way of his own happiness.

Harry is worth it.

Louis hopes his answering smile conveys everything he’s thinking, and if not, his breathy response of “and I, with you,” will have to suffice. For now.

 

\---

 

**_Never Enough_ **

 

England is lovely. The palace is lovely. Louis can see himself living here in another life. 

But England is nothing compared to Harry.

He’s left his hair down for the occasion, ringlets cascading over his shoulders, flawless and shiny as ever. He seemed self-conscious that PT had the performers wear their costumes, but he's completely owning it now, animatedly entertaining Liam, Niall, and his sister across the room from Louis. He can't get over how great Harry looks in purple.

“Right?” Louis hears in the distance. “Right, Louis?”

Louis tears his gaze away from Harry and shifts his attention back to PT. Right, Jenny Lind. PT wanting to give her a show in America. He turns on a blinding smile for Jenny, who's looking at him expectedly. “Right. PT is one of the best, he’s great.” He glances back at Harry as soon as he finishes speaking. He’s standing off to the side of the group with Gemma, now. She has her arms crossed in front of her, fidgeting with her small jacket over her leotard. “If you could excuse me for a moment,” Louis says to PT and Jenny, excusing himself from the conversation he wasn’t really apart of in the first place. He’s sure PT will charm Jenny’s dress right off if he isn't too careful. He definitely doesn't need Louis here for  _that_.

At least that's how he justifies why he’d rather talk to Harry.

“Louis,” Harry grins at him when he approaches, not so subtly squeezing Gemma’s shoulder.

“Harry,” Louis feels ten times lighter already. The poshness of the is party making his skin itch all too familiarly. “And Gemma,” he greets. She's glaring at Louis like she wants to slap him, but doesn't remove her arms from around her middle. He feels bad that she’s so uncomfortable in her costume. “Would you like my coat?” he asks her. “It’s a bit too stuffy in here for my taste.”

Gemma’s glare lessons in surprise, but her tone is hard as stone. “I’m fine, thank you.”

“I insist,” Louis says, shrugging the garment off his shoulders. “So you feel more comfortable.”

She scoffs at him. “I don't need your pity.” She stomps off towards Lettie and the others, leaving him and Harry standing alone at the edge of the crowd.

Harry sighs, gently taking the coat from Louis’s hands. “I’m sorry about her,” he says. “She’s embarrassed. I can give this to her later.” He offers Louis a meaningful look. “Thank you. Really. Even if it doesn't seem like it, she appreciates the thought.”

“Of course,” Louis answers. He should've fought harder with PT about the performers wearing their costumes to meet the queen. He clears his throat. “Do you…” Louis doesn't know where his boldness is coming from, but the words are out of his mouth before he can think better of them. “Do you wanna get out of here?”

Harry gives him a small, almost bashful smile, his brows wrinkling. There’s a knowing look in his eyes that Louis relishes. “What do you mean?”

“Do you wanna get out of here and go somewhere else,” Louis says. “With me,” he finishes lamely. How many times can he make a fool of himself in front of Harry before he finally crumbles into an embarrassed pile of dust?

“Are you asking or telling?” Harry asks, and Louis’ cheeks are steadily warming, because Harry is teasing him.

Louis can't help but smile, though, loving every moment of the dance their words are taking part in. “Asking.”

Harry taps his own chin with his finger. “Where do you have in mind?”

 _I think I’d go anywhere with you_ , is echoing in Louis’ head. “Anywhere,” he simply states instead.

Harry’s eyes are filled with mirth, the teasing grin never leaving his face when he answers, “Okay.”

 

\---

 

Louis waits for Harry in the hallway outside the ballroom while he gives Louis’ coat to Gemma. Hopefully, she won't run out here and throw a glass of champagne in his face if Harry tells her he’s going off somewhere with Louis.

The thought of him and Harry alone, getting to know each other more intimately, and just  _talking,_ makes him excited in a way he’s never felt before. His heart won’t let him have a moment of peace, his palms slick with sweat. He rubs them against his pants nervously. He’s — he’s  never done this ever in his life. The sneaking around, the meaningful glances, the _I think I’m falling in love_.

And he’s almost sure it's _mutual._  

Harry appears from around the corner, his cheeks a rosy pink. “Gemma wants you to know that she doesn't approve of what we’re doing,” he says very seriously. “But she said to thank you for the coat.” 

Louis laughs. “Will I ever win her over?” he says jokingly, but — he has to admit that it would be reassuring if Gemma was at least a little more accepting of Harry spending time with him. He knows the world is already stacked against them, and having Gemma on their side would show him that  _some_ sort of relationship with Harry is possible. “It was my pleasure,” Louis says. “She looked uncomfortable.”

“Yeah.” Harry looks down at himself. “Our costumes aren’t exactly worthy of meeting royalty, are they?”

“Hey,” Louis chides. “I think you look beautiful.”

Harry’s lips part, like that was the last thing he had expected Louis to say. Louis knows it was the last thing he expected  _himself_ to say. He’s being all kinds of daring today. If Louis’ courtship-sounding-word-vomit doesn't scare Harry off, that's probably a good sign, right?

“Oh,” he says softly. “Thank you, Louis.” Harry’s eyes drop to the floor, his smile barely there, like a ghost on his lips. It’s private and intimate, and just for Louis.

He mentally shakes himself and takes a calming breath, offering Harry his elbow. “Shall we?”

Harry grips his arm gently. “We shall.” The small smile never leaves his face.

 

\---

 

They giggle as they sneak around the dim halls of Buckingham Palace, like someone is going to catch them and throw them in the dungeon, but for some reason, Louis thinks Harry would have an easy time charming them out of any punishment they might face. 

They find a vacant room with a balcony overlooking the courtyard. Harry plants himself on the ground, looking up at Louis and patting the space next to him. “Don’t tell me you’re too posh to sit on the floor with me?” he says, his smile brighter than the moon. It paints a scene that Louis thinks he would write into one of his plays. The budding relationship between the two main characters coming to head on a balcony under the stars. The man proposes marriage out of nowhere, perhaps. That would be the perfect unexpected incident for the woman to realize that this is too sudden, or maybe she has already promised her heart to another. She would turn away dramatically, covering her face and running off through the curtains billowing behind them in the wind, leaving her suitor on his knees—

 _No,_ he stops himself, sitting as close to Harry as he dares. This isn’t one of his plays. He’ll make sure of it. He’s sick of unhappy endings.

Also, Harry is a man, and not a woman, so. 

Maybe that’s why his plays never had happy endings. He was writing for people, for a story, he could never possibly relate to or be a part of.

“What are you thinking about?” Harry turns his head towards him, away from where he was looking up at the sky, and gazes at Louis out of his periphery. Louis blows out the breath he was subconsciously holding, physically feeling the weight of his stare. 

“Nothing important. Just about...my plays, I guess.” He leans back on his elbows, tilting his face towards Harry. “I know you said you liked them, but they really were...sad.” 

Harry tsks at him, “Don’t say that. I’m sure you put a lot of work into them.” He mimics Louis’s position, his fingertips landing on top of Louis’ own. Louis doesn’t know if he meant to or not. He really hopes he did. “And I do like them,” Harry adds. 

“Why?” Louis is genuinely curious. Harry is so...bright. And Louis’ plays were drearier than the smog over their heads. Harry’s personality is the exact opposite of his plays. 

“I told you,” Harry says. “They’re real.”

Louis scoffs lightly, “You’ve had a depressing life if that’s your only reality.”

He realizes what he’s just implied a second too late. His brain to mouth filter has been switched off again, in the presence of Harry. He rubs his free hand over his face and through his quiffed hair. “Dammit. I’m sorry. I didn't mean it like that—”

“You’re right.”

Louis’ head snaps towards Harry, embarrassed, and heart squeezing painfully at Harry’s words. “I’m sorry, Harry. I didn’t mean to pry.” 

“You’re not prying. I’m telling,” Harry assures him. “Growing up...it was hard.”

Louis flips his hand that’s still located underneath Harry’s, folding his fingers in between his and squeezing. “Tell me more?”

Harry is looking out over London, his profile something of a priceless marble statue they saw in the hallway, when he answers. “My mother died when I was very young,” he starts. “I was seven, and Gemma was only eleven.”

Louis’ insides clench. He couldn't imagine losing his mother, especially at that age. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Harry looks back up at the sky. “Like I said, I was very young. Gemma has been like my second mom, as well as my sister, since.”

“What about your father?” Louis asks. 

Harry gives a terse laugh. “My father...My father is not a good man.” He takes a deep breath. “He left us on our own a lot. Spent most of our money at bars. I don't even know if he kept a job by the time Gemma and I started working on the streets.”

“Sounds like my father,” Louis says, empathizing. “He left my mother when I was a baby.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry returns, squeezing his hand.

“Mark picked her up soon enough,” Louis dismisses. “What did you and Gemma do for work?”

Harry smiles a bit at whatever memory is playing in his head. “We used to put out a pail and do cartwheels in front of factories and banks as people went to work. We’d get a couple cents if we were lucky.”

“That's…” Louis wants to say he's sorry again, but the words don’t feel like enough. “I couldn't even imagine.”

 “It was how we found trapeze, though,” Harry says. “I mean, for a couple of kids rolling around in the streets, we were  _good._ ” 

Louis laughs softly, “I’m glad it led to something great, then.”

“It’s where I found my home. In the ring, especially,” he says. “That’s why Gemma is the way she is with me, too,” Harry explains. “She just wants to take care of me. I don't think she understands that I’ve grown up too.”

“You deserve someone that loves and protects you,” Louis says sincerely. “I’m happy she's there to do it.” 

“I can protect myself,” Harry answers. “And I have the ability to choose the people who love and protect me.” He glances at Louis. “She needs to realize that eventually.”

Louis feels his cheeks reddening. “Oh.” Brilliant. 

“What about you?” Harry removes his hand from Louis’ grip, bringing his knees to his chest and wrapping his arms around them. Louis’ whole body feels cold at the loss of his touch. “Do you have siblings?”

The question hits him like a freight train, and Louis feels the bone-deep sadness that only occurs when he lets his thoughts drift to his little siblings. “Tons,” he answers Harry, his voice cracking. “All younger.” 

“Younger?” Harry’s eyes light up. “I love kids. How many?”

Louis can’t help but smile, but it feels fragile and watery, like a dam is about to break. “Five sisters and a brother. They would love you,” Louis tells him. “Especially Daisy and Phoebe. They would be obsessed with your costumes. They would probably think Gemma was a princess.”

Harry laughs. “Gemma would love that. How old are they?”

Louis answers him with a bit more enthusiasm now, “Lottie and Felicite are in their teens, nearly as tall as me.” He smiles. “The first set of twins are still kids.” Then, his breath is suddenly coming out short. “The youngest, Doris and Ernest, they're still babies. They--” Louis feels the stinging sign of tears forming in his eyes. “I haven't seen them in ages. They’ve probably gotten so big.” 

Harry’s brow furrows. “We’ll only be in England for a couple more days, Lou.” 

“No,” he lets out a wet laugh. He wishes it were that simple. “Mark, my stepfather, has forbidden me from seeing them since I ‘ran off to join the circus,’” he quotes his stepfather bitterly. “I know there are jokes about me losing my inheritance, but--” he inhales, deep and shaky. “I really lost  _them._ ”

“Oh my god, Louis,” Harry breathes out. His arms wrap around Louis, and he lets his head fall against Harry’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry.”

Louis wants to say something along the lines of “it’s alright,” but the words won’t come out. He’s worried if he opens his mouth he’ll start crying harder.

And only then is when he realizes that he  _is_ crying, his tears creating a wet spot on the fabric of Harry’s costume. “I’m sorry,” he manages to choke out. He thinks about pulling away, but Harry holds him tighter, so he tucks his head under Harry’s chin. 

He tries not to overthink their position right now, just does what feels natural, and what feels natural is to press his forehead against Harry’s neck and take calming breaths. He would be more embarrassed if this didn’t feel so  _right_. Like they fit together perfectly.

They sit for a few more minutes, and Louis brings his hands up to wipe his eyes. “Sorry,” he says again, sitting up, but not putting any distance between himself and Harry.

Harry doesn’t reply, and Louis feels anxiety bubble in his chest. He’s probably just monumentally humiliated himself in front of Harry and Harry doesn’t know how to let him down easy. 

But when he's finally brave enough to look up and judge the expression on Harry’s face for himself, he sees the opposite of disgust.

Instead, Harry’s face is serious, his lips parted, and his eyes—

His eyes are on Louis’ lips.

Louis feels himself take in a sharp breath, his heart skipping like a jump rope, but that’s unimportant compared to the way Harry is looking at him. 

Neither of them says anything, but Louis is brave enough to cautiously bring a hand to the side of Harry’s neck, his thumb caressing the pale skin. 

One of Harry’s arms is still curled around his back, and Louis feels his grip tighten on his waist. The anticipation is tangible in the air.

Louis is about to lean in, about to close his eyes and the gap between their lips, when Harry blinks, and says, “We should probably get back.”

The tension is still there, but Harry quickly dissipates it by standing, holding his hand out to help Louis up. 

Louis takes the offered hand, never wanting to let go, but Harry seems eager to get back, letting Louis’ fingers fall from his as soon as he’s standing. Harry barely waits for him, brushing off his front and walking through the door, curtains billowing out behind him. Louis hasn’t even said a word. 

The cold feeling is back.

 

\---

 

“Louis!” A little girl’s voice is shouting. “Niall messed up one of my braids!”

Louis feels a headache coming on. First, Barnum asked him to organize a venue and an orchestra as quickly as possible for the Jenny Lind performance (in PT Barnum language, that means yesterday), and now he has to deal with Niall acting like an eight-year-old when he should be doing his  _job._

Helen runs straight into his desk, barely stopping herself with her hands braced against the edge. “Be careful, babe,” he says automatically. 

She ignores him. “Look,” she says, hushed and serious. She points to the top of her head where a piece of her braid his sticking up and loose. “Niall messed up my braid.”

Niall comes running in right after her. “It wasn’t just me!” he defends himself. “Caroline was the one who said you had a bug on your head. How was I supposed to know she was kidding?” 

“Niall, please,” Louis looks at him, the deadness in his tone probably evident in his eyes. “How old are you?” 

“Older than us,” Caroline, PT’s eldest, appears behind him. “But he can’t even tell when I’m trying to play a _joke_.”

“This isn’t fair,” Niall complains. “I was being helpful.”

“My braid!” Helen points to the evidence.

Niall corrects himself, “I was _trying_ to be helpful.”

“Caroline,” Louis says, flipping through the papers in his hands. “Apologize to your sister and fix her hair.”

Helen scoffs. “But she’s not even good at doing hair!”

“Hey!” Caroline shouts back.

“Girls!” Louis stops their arguing. The headache is becoming more and more real. “Niall, take Caroline to help feed the horses. Helen, I’ll fix your hair.”

Niall and Caroline obediently follow his order, tails between their legs, while Helen watches them leave smugly. He’s definitely not imagining things when she sticks her tongue out as soon as their backs are turned. 

“Hey,” he scolds her, and her head jerks towards him, eyes wide because she was caught. “None of that. Now I’m gonna take an _extra_ long time redoing your hair and you’ll have to be still the _entire_ time.” 

She pouts and crosses her arms. “Fine.”

“Come sit,” he says, standing up from his desk chair. Helen plops herself down and Louis undoes her right braid, combing his fingers through her hair gently. “You know, you and your sister should be sticking together. Niall is an excellent person to play pranks on, I'd reckon.”

Helen laughs. “He is.” She picks at the hem of her skirt. “Caroline just acts like such a know it all sometimes.”

“Older sisters tend to do that.”

“Harry!” Helen bursts out in excitement when he appears, and Louis tugs a bit harder on her hair.

“You said you’d stay  _still_ ,” he laughs, feeling surprisingly more at ease around Harry with Helen present. It distracts him from thinking about Harry’s lips.

She rolls her eyes but doesn’t move again, and directs her attention back to Harry. “What do you say to Gemma when she’s being a know it all?”

“To be honest,” Harry says, leaning down to Helen’s level and whispering. “She’s right most of the time.”

Helen’s face falls. Louis has to bite his lip to keep from laughing at how disappointed she looks.

“But,” Harry continues. “If you tell her how you feel —  _nicely —_  I bet she’ll listen to you. And if you need more advice, you should ask Louis.” He stands up straight, eyes shining when he meets Louis’ gaze. “He’s got _five_ little sisters.” 

Louis’ jaw clenches. He doesn’t know how he feels about Harry divulging that to Helen, who’s sure to ask him a million questions. 

Turns out she doesn’t need to ask him questions, because, “I know.”

Louis’ hands stop mid plait in Helen’s hair. “How did you know that, Helen?” He tries to keep his tone light, but winces when he realizes he almost sounds like he’s scolding her again.

“I see Daisy and Phoebe at school all the time,” she says, and Louis feels like a bucket of ice water was dumped over his head. His whole body freezes. 

“Oh.” He clears his throat and resumes Helen’s braid, trying to ignore the concerned look Harry is giving him. “Um...are they—” He swallows roughly. “How are they?”

Helen seems a bit confused, but answers him nonetheless. “They’re fine, I think.”

“Good,” Louis says, finishing her braid. “Good.” He tosses the braid over her shoulder. “All done, love.”

“Thank you, Louis!” Helen says, running off towards the direction Niall and her sister left before.

Louis feels drained from the interaction. Usually, he loves spending time with Helen, but this time it's taken a toll on him, for obvious reasons. He sits heavily in his desk chair and puts his head in his hands.

Harry comes over to him immediately and puts a hand on his shoulder, squeezing. “I’m so sorry, Lou. I didn’t realize—”

Louis cuts him off. “Harry,” he says. “It’s fine. Really. You couldn’t have known.”

“I,” Harry starts, thinking over his words. “I just thought it would help, talking about it with Helen.” The fact that Harry was trying to bring him comfort at all makes warmth spread through Louis’ chest. Harry is one of the most considerate people he’s ever met, always caring about others and ready to offer help if it’s needed. He’s so  _kind_. It’s refreshing and new and makes him feel  _important_ because if Harry cares about him, then it’s easier to care a bit less about what the rest of the world thinks.

“You’re so good with Helen and Caroline,” Harry continues. “You can tell you’re the best big brother there is.”

Louis rests his hands under his chin, elbows balanced on his knees, and looks up at Harry. “Thank you, Harry. I’m just,” he says. “Not thinking about it has been more helpful than dwelling on it.” 

“I shouldn’t have assumed,” Harry says, his thumb rubbing distracting circles on Louis’ back. “They love you, though. Caroline and Helen.”

Louis smiles, blushing slightly and turning away. “I love them too.” He sits up. “It is nice, spending time with them.” He leans back in his chair. “Fills the hole in my heart a little bit.”

He glances up at Harry again, and the little smile Harry gives him is dazzling, his whole face lighting up with it. “I’m glad,” Harry says to him, his hand moving from his shoulder to his arm before dropping back down to his own side. “I’ll leave you alone,” he says, heading off towards the ring. “See you at the Jenny Lind show tomorrow?”

Oh fuck. That’s tomorrow. He still has to book _half_ the orchestra. But he internalizes his panic, and says,  “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

 

\---

 

Louis is flustered as ever. There are high-class people he used to converse with at parties breathing down his neck for being seen with Barnum, who’s also breathing down his fucking neck about organizing the musicians backstage, and now Barnum’s sent the performers to the standing area? Why is PT suddenly acting so ashamed of the people that helped him rise to fame?

He doesn’t have much time to think about it, though, because the show is starting, and he’d told Harry he’d be there with him to watch it. 

He makes his way up to where the circus performers are, away from most others, but PT was right when he said the view was spectacular compared to the seats below them or the boxes next to them.

Harry is standing towards the front of the rail, wearing a simple suit with a bright baby blue jacket. His hair is down, but he’s parted it in a way that looks like he took great care into making it look perfect. He’s peering down at the stage and the orchestra when the lights dim. Louis heads towards him, giving him a silent nod when Harry beams in his direction.

God, he’s beautiful.

PT is announcing Jenny, but truthfully, Louis can barely hear what he’s saying. The short distance between his arm and Harry’s is too loud in his mind.

He was actually looking forward to seeing Jenny perform, though. He’s never seen her sing in person, but that all seems insignificant with Harry by his side. He feels almost invincible.

When Jenny begins to sing, Harry is enraptured immediately. Louis doesn’t even think he’s looked at Jenny once since the music started. Harry's eyes are brighter than any stage light.

The urge to reach out to him, to touch him, is so overwhelming. Louis’ hand clenches at his side, his eyes dropping to where Harry’s own hand is, right next to his. He doesn’t think too hard, like when he and Harry were on the balcony, and lets his body do what it wants.

Louis’ pinky brushes against Harry’s with purpose, and Louis turns his head away from his green eyes to pretend to watch Jenny perform.

He sees Harry jump at the touch out of his peripheral vision, and the thrill it sends up Louis’ spine is absolutely addicting.

Harry is braver than him, and the careful movements Louis was constructing and planning in his head are aborted when Harry’s fingers wrap between his tightly, almost  _desperately_.

And he thought their pinkies brushing was exhilarating.

Harry’s hand is warm and solid against his, Jenny’s tragic love song fading into the background. He never wants this moment to end.

But then he sees it.

He sees the stares of people he doesn’t recognize, but recognizes their type, right on them. Whispering about them. _Judging_ him.

Louis doesn’t feel in control of his own body when he rips his hand out of Harry’s grip.

He can see Harry’s head turn to him out of the corner of his eye, to the people staring at them. Louis can picture his fallen expression in his mind’s eye, but doesn’t dare to look at him to see if he’s right.

Harry leaves Louis standing there, alone, his heart feeling heavy.

 

\---

 

**_Rewrite The Stars_ **

 

Harry is avoiding him.

Louis deserves it. He one hundred percent deserves it—

But it still hurts so fucking much. 

He decides he needs to do something about it.

“PT,” he says, jogging after the man and following him into his office. PT still hasn’t talked to him today, he doesn’t even think he’s said hi to a single person since he rushed in this morning. “I need a favor.”

“Perfect!” PT says, and Louis is used to his chipper moods, but this feels different. “I need a favor for you as well.” And oh, that’s why.

“Okay, fine,” Louis agrees easily, wanting to tell him what he has planned.

PT beams and speaks before Louis can get another word in, however. “So you’ll run the show when I’m gone then?”

And, what?

“What?” Louis says.

“I’m going on tour,” he explains. “With Jenny Lind.”

 _What?_ “What?” Louis says again.

“We’re touring the whole country,” PT answers him. “It’s going to be brilliant.” 

Louis can only see this going down hill, the exact  _opposite_ of brilliant. “Why can’t you just put more shows in New York? Why do you need to tour the country?” Louis asks, hoping he'll see sense.

“Why did Napoleon march on Russia?” PT says in response. 

Louis pauses. “Napoleon was defeated.”

PT mumbles something about already selling tickets and booking theaters, hurrying out of his office.

Louis follows and tries to convince him that this is a bad idea, but PT has his mind set, and once he’s made a decision it’s impossible to get him to change his mind.

“Now,” PT says to a defeated Louis. “What is it that you wanted?”

 

\---

 

Louis gets to the theater just in time. He sees Harry trying to explain to the man in the ticket booth that Barnum had told him he was only supposed to have one ticket, not two. He’s wearing a suit again, the jacket a lovely green this time. His — He cut his hair.

Louis swoops in behind him, then, gently placing a hand on his back. “No, there’s meant to be two," he tells the man behind the counter.

Harry turns to look at Louis in surprise, but his stare is hard, like he's trying to control his reaction.

“Wasn’t sure you’d come if I asked myself,” Louis explains.

Harry says nothing, but takes Louis’ arm anyway. It feels like success.

"You cut your hair," Louis says. If you had asked him yesterday, he would have said that Harry's long hair was the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. Now, he realizes, he'll always think anything Harry does is beautiful.

"Yeah," Harry answers, running a hand through the trimmed sides. "Gemma did it for me." It's the first words he's spoken to Louis in  _so long,_ and Louis feels like he can breathe again, all of a sudden.

They’re walking up the stairs towards the seating for the main stage, and Harry looks towards the doors in awe. “I’ve never been inside before," he says quietly.

“I know,” Louis answers, keeping his eyes on Harry’s face, wanting to see his every reaction. He’s going to have a hard time paying any attention to the play.

“Louis, is that you?” 

Louis looks up in shock. That was the last voice he expected to hear, but he curses himself for not predicting this as a possible outcome sooner. “Mark,” he says. He sees his mother, standing there as well. “Mother.”

“Louis,” his mother breathes out, and his heart hurts.

It’s silent for a tense few seconds before Louis speaks again, clearing his throat. “How are the girls and Ernest?”

His mother opens her mouth, but Mark speaks over her. “That’s none of your concern, Louis.”

“Of course it is,” says Harry. His brave, brave Harry. “They’re his siblings.”

Louis speaks up, hoping to diffuse the situation. “Mark, mother,” he gestures towards Harry. “This is Harry Styles.”

His stepfather barely spares Harry a glace. “Louis, have you no shame?” Louis grits his teeth. “First, it was running off to join Barnum and his band of freaks, and now…” He looks at Harry like he’s an abomination, like he doesn’t belong here in the theater, in their world. It makes Louis’ blood boil. “Now you’re parading around with a queer circus performer.”

Louis feels Harry tense next to him, and before he knows it, Harry is turning around and exiting the way they came.

“Harry,” Louis calls after him, but Harry doesn’t look back, the door at the entrance of the theater slamming shut behind him. 

Louis' fists clench at his sides. He turns to his stepfather. “How dare you speak to him like that.”

Louis’ mother reaches for his arm, and he nearly flinches. “You’re forgetting your place, Louis.” 

“My place?” Louis says. “Mother, if this is my place, then I don’t want any part of it.”

He leaves the theater, the play forgotten the second Harry left.

 

\---

 

Louis finds him in the ring, where Harry said he feels most at home, and where else would you go when you're upset?

Home.

_Home._

It suddenly all makes sense now, why Louis, although missing his siblings, has never missed his old life since joining PT Barnum.

He — Louis has to tell him. Louis is gonna tell him.

Harry has changed out of his suit and is now wearing only loose fitted pants as he sets up his ropes on the edges of the ring.

“Harry,” Louis nearly runs to him. “You can't listen to a word they say, they're closed minded people," he tries to tell him, but Harry ignores him. “What do you care what they think?” 

Harry’s movements are stiff, his words terse. “It’s not just them, Louis.”

Louis wants to argue with him, but he can't make the words fall out of his mouth because, on a certain level, he knows Harry is right. So he stays silent.

“You’ve never had someone look at you the way your parents looked at me,” Harry continues lowly at Louis’ silence, tying off ropes and pulling to ensure they’re secure. “The way everyone would look at us.” He doesn't even glance at Louis, not once. “All my life, people have treated me like dirt,” he yanks harder, “because I was poor, because I was different.” He finishes and reaches for the fabric he left on the front row bench, wrapping it methodically over his hands. “My own father hated me. My own father called me a _queer_ before I even knew what it meant.” 

“Harry…” Louis reaches out towards him, but Harry jerks away.

“It makes me feel awful,” Harry laughs, self-deprecating, maniacal, and miserable, putting more distance between himself and Louis. “That he was right.”

“But that doesn’t mean it’s wrong, Harry.” Louis tries. “I’m...I’m queer too, I always have been—”

“You’re good at pretending,” Harry snaps, throwing the remaining cloth to the ground, glaring daggers at him. “I never have been. I’ve always known I was _wrong_.”

“You’re anything but wrong,” Louis protests. His mouth is dry and his blood feels like it's freezing solid in his veins, Harry’s stare is so venomous.

“Not wrong, Louis?” Harry laughs again. Louis’ bones ache with it. He wants to cry for all the pain his boy has been through, as if that would make it go away somehow. “If I’m not wrong,” he takes a shaky breath. “Then why did you seem so ashamed of me that night at the opera? If it wasn’t _wrong_ ,” his words are biting, now, harsh as winter wind. “Then holding my hand should be a walk in the park.”

Louis’ breath hitches. “I’m sorry.”

“If you’re sorry, then you’ll leave me alone,” Harry states menacingly.

“Harry, please. There has to be another way, for us — for us to be _together_. I—” Louis is desperate, but he still means every word. He  _has_ to tell him. “I love you”

It’s silent. Harry’s gaze is across the room, still not giving Louis the time of day. His eyes are dewy and wet, like morning grass, like stained glass. The only coherent thought in Louis’ panicked head is  _beautiful._

“Please,” Harry’s voice is soft, pleading, breaking through the atmosphere like a distant thunderclap. “Please, just go.”

Louis can’t think of a reply, of a plea to  _stay_ , _please Harry, we’re worth it,_ before Harry tugs on a rope and launches himself in the air.

It makes Louis feel irrationally angry, for some reason. “Oh yeah, that’s real mature, Styles!” He shouts, stomping towards the center of the ring. “Fly away from your problems — from _us_ — like we never existed!”

Harry’s feet slam back onto the ground, head down as he lands in a squat directly in front of Louis. He stands, squaring up to Louis, staring him down with ice in his eyes. He’s only a few inches taller than Louis, but he feels so small all of a sudden. “You think I’m acting immature?” He’s so close, Louis can feel the heat radiating from his bare chest, and Louis just wants to reach out and touch him, whether it be to grab his shoulders and knock some sense into him or to kiss him till dawn breaks, he isn't sure. “I’m the only one being realistic. I’m the only one worried about us getting  _killed_ for this--” he chokes, and Louis’ anger vanishes in a heartbeat, replaced with emptiness. He...he really can't convince Harry they're worth it, can he? But...maybe Harry is right. Maybe it’s better because he’d know Harry is safe. “Please,” Harry is crying now, tears gathering under his eyes. “If I have to tell you I don’t want you, I will. We can never live outside these walls, Louis, why can’t you  _see_ that? Everything keeps us apart.” Louis feels hopeless, useless. “So please, make it easier, for me, for both of us, and just  _go_. Forget about me, about Barnum, about the circus. Go back to your old life. You would have everything you ever needed. Your family, your siblings, you could have it all back.”

“How would that be easier, Harry?” Louis reaches forward cautiously, taking one of his hands into his own, running his fingers over Harry’s calloused palms. “How can I forget about you, about all of this? I’ve loved every second of this life more than I ever have my old one. It would never be the same again. Why can’t _you_ see that?”

Harry is breathing hard, his words vulnerable but loud in the quiet ring. “We can't move the mountains in front of us, Louis.” Harry gently takes his hand back, tucking it to his chest. “I can't have you. It’s better this way.”

“Says who?” Louis asks, a tear escaping down his cheek, hand still outstretched towards Harry.

“Everyone but us,” Harry says, stepping away from him, and Louis can feel half of his heart tearing out of his chest to follow. “And we’re only two people in a world of millions.”

He leaves then, off to his living quarters, and Louis can only sit and watch as his one chance of happiness literally runs away from him.

 

\---

 

It’s only the second week of covering for Barnum as ringleader, and Louis is exhausted.

But, he blames part of it on the bone-deep sadness that’s ever present, since Harry completely broke off whatever they had going for them. Did they ever have anything going for them?

Strongman Liam is helping him clean up the remaining equipment from the ring, which Harry used to help him and PT with before, but Harry is now one of the first people gone as soon as the show ends. It’s like he can barely stand being around Louis. It kind of reminds him of how Gemma treated him for having a thing for her brother.

Harry treating him like that hurts ten times worse, though.

Rationally, he knows Harry doesn’t actually  _hate_ him, is just trying to protect Louis and himself, but Louis convincing himself that Harry hates him is less painful than knowing that they both want more and can’t have it.

Liam hands him another discarded bag of popcorn when the group of men walk in.

“The show is over, gentleman,” Louis tells them, recognizing them from some of the protests that the circus still brings on. He’s hoping to avoid confrontation. “I’m gonna have to ask you to leave.”

“This is our town, son,” one of them says. “We think you should leave.” The men rally up behind him, taking threatening steps towards Louis. Louis feels Liam walk up to stand next to him, putting on a front. 

The man continues his rant, his voice becoming more dangerous. “You should leave. You, and your freaks.” 

“Sir,” Louis starts. He can feel Liam’s anger radiating from next to him. He must recognize these men too. “I won’t ask you again. Leave.”

“Or else what?” The man challenges, charging into Louis’ space. He doesn’t get too close, though, because Liam punches the man square in the face.

Then, all hell breaks loose. Liam punches another man, and Louis suddenly feels a hit land on his right cheek. He hears the cries of some of the other performers behind him, apparently hearing the ruckus and joining the fight. 

He vaguely hears a lamp smash, and the flames start soon after.

 

\---

 

There’s so much smoke.

Louis doesn’t know how the fire spread so quickly. At one point it wasn’t there, then all of a sudden it’s the only thing he sees.

People are rushing past him, pushing and hugging and crying, but his eyes are focused on the building, waiting for him to run out.

Louis hasn’t seen him during the chaos, and by the time he realized what was going on, Lettie and Liam were already yanking him out by his arms, he hardly had a chance to think about--

Fuck. Where _is_ he?

Then he sees Gemma, so that has to mean—

 She makes eye contact with him, looking about as panicked as he feels. “Harry? Was he with you?”

Louis stomach drops. “You mean he wasn’t with you?”

“No! Oh god, he’s—” she covers her mouth with her hand and chokes on a sob.

Louis only hesitates for a second before taking off running towards the burning building. He hears Gemma yell after him, but if that single second costs Harry his life, Louis has to make up for the time he’s already lost.

The smoke overwhelms him immediately, and he weaves past the crumbling bleachers towards the rear end of the building where the living quarters are.

“Harry!” He shouts, coughing as soon as he breathes opens his mouth. “Har...Harry!”

He presses his hand to his chest, hoping to dislodge some of the smoke invading his lungs, but it’s too late, there’s too much.

Louis trails his hand along the bricks of the back wall to keep balance as he frantically searches, squinting through the smoke, hoping to see  _something_ , anything. “Harry…”

His knees buckle on their own accord, and he can’t get any more air into his lungs. It’s like someone is choking him, but the only hands scraping at Louis’ throat are his own.

He has no idea where Harry could be, prays with all his heart that he’s not in this building-turned-hell. _If Harry didn’t make it out_ , he thinks cynically, _at least they’re dying here together, right?_

Louis’ heart aches more than his lungs do at the thought. Harry doesn’t deserve this death, deserve  _him_. Louis couldn’t help him. Couldn’t save him. 

He could never have saved them.

Louis’ head hits the concrete and black spots begin clouding his vision. He curls up on the ground, giving up, waiting for the jaws of Hades to swallow him whole and pull him down, down, down.

He doesn’t know when he lost consciousness, or if he had lost it all, everything is so hazy, but his head spins as he’s suddenly jerked up from the ground. There’s a solid pair of arms underneath him, but he thinks it may be his imagination.

Everything is blurry and muted, but through the smoke in his brain, he thinks he hears a deep voice saying something to him. 

He closes his eyes.

 

\---

 

The first thing Louis registers is the pain in his head. Shit, what did he do to his head?

Then he remembers.

The fight, the fire, _Harry._ Harry had carried him out.

It had to have been him. 

But where is Harry?

His eyes snap open with a gasp, triggering a coughing fit. Breathing in smoke doesn't help your respiratory system, turns out.

He tries to sit up, but there's a hand on his chest. “Shh, Lou. I’ll go get the doctor—” 

“Harry.” Louis’ fit finally calms down enough for him to realize who’s in front of him, and he grasps the wrist of the hand that’s on his chest. “You're here.” _You're okay._

“Of course I’m here, Lou,” Harry sounds distraught, looks frustrated. He’s got soot on his forehead, and he’s the most beautiful thing Louis has ever seen. “You were just in a _fire_ , Louis _._ You ran into a burning building and put yourself in danger like an idiot to save  _me_. When I got out, Gemma was _hysterical_ , I don’t think she’ll ever forgive me for going in after you—”

“I wrote you something,” Louis says.

“What?” Harry has his hand in a vice grip now, eyes shiny. “Louis, you got hurt—”

“I know.” Louis can still feel the smoke in his throat. “But I’m okay. Because of  _you,_ ” he emphasizes. “And I wrote you something.”

“Louis,” Harry almost looks angry. “You could've _died_. What if I didn’t get to you on time? I—” Harry is gasping for breath, a sob building up in his chest and making him stutter. “I, I don't know how I could ever live without you. You were on the ground — and there was so much smoke, and—” 

Louis clicks his tongue and shushes him, bringing his free hand up to squeeze the back of Harry’s neck. “Oh, love, c’mere.” He releases Harry's hand and pulls him into his arms. Harry fits right into them, and Louis ignores his body’s protests as he makes room for Harry to lie with him. Louis runs his hand through his short curls, the other moving from his neck to his back to hold Harry tightly against him. “You were so  _brave_ , darling _._ How could I ever leave you?”

Harry cries into his chest, fingers gripping Louis’ flimsy undershirt tightly. “You could have died because of me. Because I wasn't there for you when those men attacked you and Liam. I should've been by your side—”

“Shush, my love.” Louis soothes. “None of that. I’m just happy you're okay.”

Harry pulls away from him. “You went back for me. After I was horrible to you.”

“Of course I did,” Louis’ doesn't hesitate to answer. “And _you_ went back for  _me._ You saved my life, Harry.”

“I,” Harry breathes in through his mouth gently, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth. The tears in his eyes are like rain against the stained glass windows of the church on 8th Street. “I love you, Louis.” 

Louis smiles. “I wrote something for you.” And he did, while he was sitting at his desk in silence, knowing Harry was in the same building, avoiding him because he thought their destiny wasn't something they could decide for themselves.

Harry sniffles, and smiles back. “A play?” 

Louis raises his hand to stroke his cheek. Harry grabs it and keeps it there. “No. A poem.”

“A poem,” Harry repeats. “No one has ever written me a poem before.”

 _I’ve written hundreds about you in my head_ , Louis thinks, but he’ll settle on the one he actually wrote down with pen and paper, so many times he’s memorized it. “Would you like to hear it?”

“Yes, please.”

Louis clears his throat. “‘What if we rewrite the stars?” He keeps his voice soft, because this is just for Harry to hear, only for Harry to hear. “‘Say you were made to be mine.’” Louis has never shared a more intimate moment with anyone. His eyes are locked on Harry’s, trying to portray all the love and adoration he feels towards him through his words. “‘Nothing could keep us apart, and you'd be the one I was meant to find.’” His voice cracks, the emotions he’s felt since he saw Harry for the very first time coming out into the open completely. “‘So it’s up to you, and it's up to me. No one can say what we get to be. So why don't we rewrite the stars? Maybe the world could be ours—” He barely gets the last words out, because Harry is grabbing his face and kissing him. 

It’s rough and bruising, but perfect in every way imaginable. He can feel Harry’s tears, Harry’s emotions, Harry’s _everything_ poured into this single moment _._ It’s better than any whiskey he's ever tasted, better than meeting the queen of England, better than anything he’s ever experienced because it’s _Harry_ , and he loves Harry more than words allow him to describe. 

Nothing could be better than Harry kissing him.

“I love you,” Louis breathes out when they finally part. “I love you so much.”

“I love you too,” Harry says, and Louis doesn’t think it could get more perfect than this.

“Wait,” Harry pulls back suddenly, wiping the tears from his face. “I have a surprise.”

“What?” Now it’s Louis’ turn to be confused. Harry untangles himself from Louis and rushes past the curtain that's been pulled around his bed.

He’s back within the minute, gripping the hand of a young girl— 

“Lottie?”

 

\---

 

**_Home Again (From Now On)_ **

 

Looking at the pile of ash, where PT Barnum built his dreams and made so many others come true, Louis wants to cry. He feels like he’s at a funeral, the mood one of mourning. Everyone has gathered around and no one is saying much. The colors are dark and muted, like the smoke stained the streets, and their spirits. He’s never seen such a lively group of people be so silent.

Harry pulls one of his metal trapeze hoops from the rubble, gripping it tightly in his fists.

Louis reaches out towards him, squeezing his forearm. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Harry says, still staring at the object in his hands before handing it to Gemma. She puts it with the other somewhat salvageable things they found.

“But,” Louis continues. “This was your home, and now…” He thinks he can see the remains of his desk and chair among the wreckage. “It’s gone.”

Harry lifts his head to look at Louis, the green in his eyes as bright as the sun, lit up by the daylight. “A building doesn’t make a home, my darling.”

Louis’ breath catches in his throat.

“I love you,” he whispers.

“I love you too,” Harry answers him.

Just then, PT walks up to them. Louis lets go of Harry’s arm.

“No, please,” PT says. “Don’t stop on my account.”

Harry laughs, and Louis is a bit mortified. 

PT laughs, too. “You think I’m any sort of man of religion, Louis?”

“I—” Louis says. “I guess not.”

He smiles. “Society loves to hate what it doesn’t take the time to understand. And if I’ve learned anything from this trainwreck,” he gestures towards the ashes. “It’s that love makes you a hell of a lot happier. 

Louis is speechless. Harry brushes the back of his hand with his fingertips, the touch almost startling him. “Thank you, Barnum,” he finally says.

“For what?” PT asks, winking.

 

\---

 

PT insists on accompanying Louis and Harry back to Louis’ apartment, chatting up the idea of a tent near the lake where they’ll begin their new show. Louis kind of missed seeing that light in his eyes.

“They caught the man who started the fire,” PT tells them when they reach Louis’ apartment. They’re standing in the entryway out on the street while Louis searches his pockets for his keys.

“Good,” Harry answers PT gruffly, pulling Louis’ keys from his own pocket and handing them to him. “I would bet money that it’s one of the same men who punched me in the alley after opening week.” 

Louis’ eyes widen, comically, given Harry’s amused snort at the look on his face. “Someone punched you?” He’s never heard his own voice sound so angry.

Harry smirks at him. “Calm down, lion cub.” He waves goodbye to Barnum, whose taken that as his cue to leave. “See you tomorrow Phineas!”

As soon as he’s out of sight, Harry grabs the lapels of Louis’ jacket, bringing him close. Louis doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to this casual intimacy, where Harry feels free to be himself, and where his affection doesn’t feel like a monumental occurrence. Facing and conquering a near-death experience with the love of your life will do that to you, probably.

Louis is well on his way to fully embracing that freedom too, but, he has trouble not pulling away when they could potentially be seen. Like now, for example, even though he knows they’re the only people on the street, Louis has to force himself to resist the urge to look over his shoulder, to see if people are watching. The fact that he abstains from doing so shows progress, he thinks. 

“I’m fine, you know,” Harry says, referring to the time he got  _punched_ and didn’t tell Louis. “You know I can protect myself,” he assures, a cocky grin on his face.

“I know,” Louis grumbles in response. “I’ve seen your arms.”

Harry’s smile grows, genuine and happy this time. “Don’t worry,” he says. “I’ll protect you too.” 

And Louis knows he means from more than just drunken men with wild fists, knows Harry means that no matter what obstacles they face in the future, he’ll never leave Louis’ side.

Louis and Harry will protect each other, and nothing can keep them apart.

Because Harry is the one Louis was meant to find.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This is cheesy and gross, isn't it.
> 
> I'd like to thank Hugh Jackman for making this possible.
> 
> Kudos and comments are nice? You can also yell at me on [tumblr](http://werewolvesau.tumblr.com).
> 
> (And [here](http://werewolvesau.tumblr.com/post/171262103169/what-if-we-rewrite-the-stars-12163-words-by) is a rebloggable post for this fic if you would like to reblog it or give it a like.)
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!


End file.
